


Into the Same River Twice

by Sineala



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: ninth_eagle, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:58:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of Marcus' memories are wrong. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. (Or: Five places Marcus may or may not have met Esca. Mostly not.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Same River Twice

**Author's Note:**

> For the third year of the Eagle Fanmedia Challenge, Round 3. Title shamelessly stolen from Heraclitus. Thanks to Carmarthen for beta.

### One: Clusium

He wouldn't have known there was anything different about the new neighbors if he hadn't heard the slaves gossiping. Marcus had been hiding from his tutor in one of the empty bedrooms, making his wooden soldiers adventure all across the bed, when the gossip became particularly hard to ignore.

"--been in the family for generations," the secretary said. "Why, how could anyone just--"

"I heard he was a chief," said another man, "before they captured him. Why, in the old days a barbarian wouldn't have dared to buy land here. It isn't right!"

Old Sabinus had put the farm up for auction and a freedman had come along and bought it. A British freedman! A barbarian! Marcus did not quite understand the objection; surely it would be exciting to live right next to a painted Briton. It would be the most exciting thing that had happened since the storm that washed away half of Clusium, and he didn't even remember that properly.

"And what are you all chattering about?" asked his mother, just on the other side of the curtain, as Marcus' soldiers claimed the pillow in the name of Rome. But oh no, the great eagle -- it was really the wooden eagle that his father had carved him -- was about to swoop down on the soldiers, when--

"Nothing, _domina_."

The complaints stilled, but not soon enough: she had heard them too.

"A freedman's money is just as good as anyone else's," said his mother, "no matter where he's from. And here, we welcome our neighbors."

To prove it, she invited this Cunoval to dinner the next night.

Marcus was too young for the dinner, of course; it was all grown-ups. But Cunoval, a huge man, had knelt down to greet him right in the middle of the atrium, as if Marcus were every bit as important as his mother.

"So you're young Marcus, eh?" Cunoval grinned, and Marcus was not sure whether he should be afraid of him. "How old are you?"

"F-five," Marcus said, bravely. He wondered if the Britons really ate people, like in the stories.

The man smiled again. "Five! A good age. My son is going to be five soon!" He leaned back and held out a hand. Marcus saw that, in the crowd of slaves, there was a little boy, not too much younger than him, with a serious, sullen face. "Come here, Esca! Wouldn't you like to meet Marcus?"

Esca stuck his thumb in his mouth and shook his head rapidly. His eyes were wide.

"No?" Cunoval gave an encouraging smile. "Don't be shy. Come on."

Maybe Esca would play with him. Marcus held out his fist, the wooden eagle clenched in it. "Do you want to play with my eagle?"

Esca took his thumb out of his mouth and blinked at him, startled. "You'd let me play with it?" He sounded suspicious.

"Of course I would," Marcus said, quickly. Had everyone else told him no, when he asked to play? He imagined some of the other boys in the town. Big stupid Quintus had probably told him no _and _punched him in the face. "Only don't break it. My father made it for me."__

Esca took a few steps forward. "He did?"

Marcus nodded. "My father's a soldier, so he's away now, but when he came home last time he made me that. See, it has little feathers." He was proud of it, and wanted Esca to see too. He pushed it into Esca's hand.

"It's pretty," Esca said, looking down at the carving, and he was smiling now, really grinning. "Thank you."

Cunoval stared at both of them. "So, that's how it is, eh?" he said. "I'm glad you two are going to get along well."

They played all evening, and when Cunoval came to take Esca home, Marcus put the eagle in Esca's hand.

### Two: Rome

Marcus walked slowly through the forum, his head down; he was in no hurry to go home. Not that it felt like home, for all that he'd lived here nine years. It never had, and it never would. Oh, his uncle-in-law Tullius Lepidus' house on the Aventine was nice enough -- far nicer than many people got, in the city -- but even so there were always people, the crush and crowding and yelling and effluvia of a million Romans going about their daily business, all right here. There was nowhere you could stand in silence and let the clean wind blow through your hair. There were no valleys you could run through and never see another living soul.

And there would not be such a place for him again: the farm had been sold, and Marcus had come to live here. His kin had made it plain that they appreciated this arrangement even less than he did. No, he did not look forward to coming home. It would only mean that the hours of Lepidus' glares and stony silence would begin sooner.

The patter of an auctioneer drew his attention, and without looking, Marcus began to wander in the direction of the booming voice. Marcus had no need to buy anything, but watching them show off their wares was almost always interesting, for here in Rome they often brought things of great rarity: the finest jewels, dyes, spices from the east.

"Sold," the auctioneer said, and then there came a rattle of chain. Marcus looked up. Oh. Slaves. He had walked as far as the slave-markets without noticing.

The woman who had been standing on the block was led off, and the auctioneer launched into his speech for the next one.

"Here's a special deal for you, eh?" He laughed and held out his hands. "This one didn't sell yesterday -- or the day before -- so I'll start the bidding half off. Four hundred." It was an insultingly low price, and Marcus wondered what was wrong with him.

Then they brought the slave up. He was a young man, maybe just younger than Marcus, but if he was going to grow any bigger, he hadn't done it yet. He was small, pale, scrawny, underfed -- and yet he was cuffed at the wrists, fettered at the ankles. Even wearing just a tattered loincloth, he looked as if he wanted to take on a whole legion. He'd fought. He'd fought back. His bare feet were chalked, but Marcus didn't need to see that to know the man was from the provinces. Marcus was too far away to read his board, though; he couldn't tell anything else.

"All the way from Britannia," crowed the auctioneer. "A painted warrior!"

At his signal, one of the guards shoved the slave around so that the crowd could see the marks inked onto the man's arm. A few people murmured, but it was nothing special, really; if you wanted such a barbarian, you could have a dozen Gauls with a wave of your hand. Still, there was something about the way he stood, so proud, as if even this ultimate indignity could not shame him.

"So which of your guards did he maim?" shouted some wag in the crowd.

The auctioneer held up his hands for silence. "None, friend. He is merely a good bargain. A sale, if you will."

"He's an unskilled barbarian! And a puny one!" The man scoffed. "What is anyone supposed to do with that? I wouldn't even pay two hundred."

The querulous man had a point, Marcus reflected. He'd heard his uncle expounding often enough about how home-grown slaves were the best, the most suited to their station in life. Certainly one would not buy a barbarian who looked as if he wanted to kill half of Rome with his bare hands. And, with the size he was, he was probably not much good for anyone looking for laborers.

"He is in excellent condition." The auctioneer spread his arms wide, imploring. "And he's young. Still tractable. Ready to learn whatever you set him to." Marcus had to laugh a little at the lie. "They breed them large in Britannia. He'll grow."

The naysayer in the crowd just smirked, pointedly turning his back.

The auctioneer pressed on. "What am I bid for this Briton? Four hundred?"

Utter silence.

No, no one would buy this slave. You'd be mad to.

"Last chance," said the auctioneer, sounding a little desperate, possibly for his profit. If there were no takers in the public auction, one of the officials building endless monuments probably got him cheap, some deal on the side. He'd die before the year was out.

Then the slave straightened up, proudly, with a rattle and clanking of chain. There was dried blood caked all on his ribs, Marcus saw. The handlers had beaten him. But the slave stood tall, as tall as he could, and looked out over the crowd, proud and noble, like a king. Defiant gray eyes met Marcus', and they were full of fire and life.

He could not abandon this man.

Marcus held up his hand. "Eight hundred."

The auctioneer stared at him, shocked. "Are you quite certain?"

Marcus nodded.

The slave's mouth moved, but if he said anything, Marcus could not understand it. He thought the slave might be shaking, trembling, lost in the heady depths of emotion.

"Eight hundred from the young man at the back," said the auctioneer, finally. "Anyone else?"

No one said anything.

"Sold to the young equestrian there for eight hundred," the auctioneer said, at last recovering some semblance of a script. "Enjoy your purchase."

What would he do? What had he done? He didn't need another slave. He didn't want another slave. He wanted-- he wanted this one freed. There was something about him that begged for Marcus to help him. Perhaps it was knowing that such a man would never beg for help on his own, and that he needed it badly.

Well. He would meet him. And then, then he would see what could be done. At least home would be less lonely.

As they led the slave away, the slave's eyes remained fixed on his the whole time.

The slave's mouth moved again, and Marcus realized he could just barely make out the words: "Thank you."

### Three: Nicopolis

"Oh," said Evander, in a tone of dawning realization, with the latrunculi piece still clutched in his hand. "Did I not mention the archers?"

Marcus tried not to wince, at least not so that his centurion would notice. Evander had a knack for tactics -- in fact, he was certainly the most gifted strategist Marcus had ever served under -- but that didn't leave room for much else in his head. Very often he would relay useful bits of information -- or things that would have been useful -- to Marcus and to the rest of the century... several days late. He forgot. He always forgot.

"No, sir," Marcus said, and watched Evander take another one of his pieces with effortless ease. "You never mentioned any archers."

It was awkward enough that they were splitting the century temporarily, but it was going to be even worse if they had to take on additional men from one of the other units. Archers. It was going to be a mess, no doubt about it. Maybe they could go in Evander's half, Marcus thought, sulkily. Let him deal with them. Most of the auxiliaries hardly even spoke Latin. Or Greek.

Evander shrugged. "It'll be good experience for you, Aquila."

"We can't... just not have them?"

"Do _you_ want to talk to the tribune, then?" Evander smirked. "Didn't think so. He seems to think that, following the most recent... incident, we'd be better off bringing archers from the auxiliaries rather than relying on our men."

He remembered the camel. Alexander hadn't even meant to shoot the camel, Marcus was sure. It had been an accident. All right, and maybe that hadn't been the only one.

"As you wish, sir." Marcus sighed. "When can we expect them?"

"Er. This morning."

Evander made an aggrieved face and gestured out the tent flap. Marcus squinted at the swirling dust and thought that maybe, just maybe, the two men tramping across the field were the men in question, or at least their leaders. Mithras! He'd have liked a little more warning than this.

"Ho there," called a dark-headed man, sticking his head into the tent, centurion's helmet tucked under one arm, "is this the third century?"

"Indeed," said Evander. "And you're the archers?"

"Tereus, centurion of the Second Thracian," said the man, proudly; the name was even Thracian, and Marcus wondered if he'd been one of the cohort's original recruits. "I've been told half my men are going with you, and half with your optio." He laughed, though nothing about it sounded funny to Marcus. "I thought I'd give my optio to yours, to take charge of half. At least if he passes out and dies from heatstroke, it'll be your man's problem."

Evander laughed. Marcus really didn't think it was funny now. Centurions. If he ever got his promotion, he'd remember where he came from.

Outside the tent, Marcus realized, a doubled-over figure was wheezing. "Not dead yet, sir," a voice panted, raspy and awful, with an accent Marcus couldn't quite identify.

"By Hercules!" cried Marcus, and he was up out of his seat, "whoever you are, come inside and have a drink."

The man who stumbled in was quite possibly the palest person Marcus had ever met, and all at once, seeing him, Marcus placed the accent: a Briton. No wonder he was dying out here in the Egyptian summer. The man had the worst sunburn Marcus could recall seeing: his skin was a shockingly bright red, peeling off in great patches. His face was flushed in addition to the burn, his eyes not quite tracking motion properly, his head lolling to one side.

"You look _awful_ ," said Marcus, with feeling, before he could think better of it.

The Briton lifted his head and grinned raggedly. "Thank you, and it's a pleasure to meet you too. I regret that we can't all have your stunning good looks."

Half-wondering just how much he meant that compliment, Marcus let the man have his chair. He fell into it in a heavy sprawl and Marcus went for the water. The Briton did not even protest when Marcus spilled the water-dipper on him in his haste; indeed, he drank like a man dying of thirst.

"Esca is my best man, I assure you." The centurion sounded nearly apologetic to have to present them with such a sight. "Even if he doesn't look it at the moment."

"I had no idea the legions were so kind," Esca said, in an almost dreamy tone. "I thought at least you'd make me fetch my own water."

Evander laughed again. "It's only Aquila who's soft-hearted here, Briton. The rest of us will have you for breakfast."

"Mmm." The threat did not seem to move Esca; he sat, eyes half-shut, head tipped back, an intriguing picture of vulnerability and strength. Marcus felt a comfortable, appreciative sort of warmth flow through him. "Which of you am I on the patrol with, then?"

Evander held out a hand like a merchant presenting goods. "Don't worry, Marcus, he's all yours."

Marcus smiled. 

"Oh, good." Esca looked up at him and squinted. "Say, have we met before?"

Selfishly glad of this excuse to admire the man more, Marcus gave him a thorough look. Now that Esca had said it, he did think he seemed somewhat familiar but... "No, I don't think so." He'd have remembered this.

"Ah, too bad. Thought you looked like someone I knew." Esca stretched and smiled a lazy smile. "I look forward to getting to know you, though."

"I as well," said Marcus, and passed him another cup of water. Their hands touched, and Esca's lingered.

### Four: Isca Dumnoniorum

It wasn't encouraged, Lutorius had said, to socialize with the inhabitants of the local village. At least he had come right out and said it, unlike the others who restricted themselves to murmurs of disapproval whenever he would head out for a day's hunting with Cradoc. Marcus tried not to think about it. Likely they would all have hated him anyway, for his father.

He was surprised to find, however, that their dislike of the Britons was not confined to events so obvious as gestures of friendship, but extended even to more innocuous things. Like shopping.

"The horses we have here are good, solid Roman stock, and the decurion has put them all at your disposal," said Lutorius, bewildered. "Why would you want to pay a filthy Dumnonii barbarian for a half-wild pony?"

Marcus bit back all the replies he could have made, that he did not begrudge the Britons any money, that it was meet for the commander to have a horse of his own, that perhaps the Dumnonii would look upon them more kindly if they saw him trying to interact with the townsfolk, that the British horses were likely better in their native land than Roman ones... none of it would convince a man whose mind was already made up.

"Because it would please me."

Lutorius' mouth firmed. "Very good, sir."

The horse-trader, as it happened, was not Dumnonii at all. Marcus inadvertently discovered this when asking the man near the string of horses on the outskirts of town why he'd never seen him before.

"That's because I'm not from around here," the trader said, with a charming smile, extending one thin-boned arm for a handclasp. "Esca, of the Brigantes." And if by that he meant _you stupid Romans can't tell us apart_ , his face gave nothing of it away. It was a good smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I've heard you sell horses."

"What gave it away?" said Esca in reply, completely straight-faced until Marcus started to grin. It was a transparent ploy, of course, a salesman saying anything to make you feel more inclined to buy from him, but Marcus felt somehow that the man honestly liked him.

Mithras, but he was surely lonely, to be thinking that.

"Lucky guess, I suppose," he retorted, and Esca cracked a smile.

"All right." Esca stood back and swept his arms wide, gesturing toward his herd. They were all well-cared-for, Marcus noted absently, even if most of them were the shaggy little ponies Lutorius would have disdained. "What manner of duty is the horse for, centurion?" Marcus hadn't told him his name, but his rank must have been obvious.

Marcus blinked. "Does it matter to you?"

Esca stared at him as if he'd said the most ridiculous thing in the world. "Of course it matters! Do you want a sure-footed beast, to carry you through the trackless wilds? Do you want a creature who is nimble and fleet on your Roman roads, to get you to the next fort in good time? Do you merely want the prettiest one, so that you will look impressive on the parade grounds in your fine polished armor, mounted on your new stallion? You think I would sell you the same horse for all three tasks?"

"Oh." 

Come to think of it, he didn't really know what he wanted the horse for, other than his vague suspicion that the commander of a garrison really ought to own his own. He couldn't very well admit to that, though.

"Or," said Esca, slyly, "perhaps you want a warhorse, to ride into battle against the Dumnonii, hmm?"

Marcus gaped. "You cannot seriously expect that I will reveal to you any future military plans, just because you have asked nicely." He had some nerve, this one.

The grin was unrepentant. "No, but it was worth a try."

He had to ask. Not really. Actually, he probably shouldn't have. But while he was here, Marcus thought, he might as well gather all the intelligence he could. "What makes you think we're attacking the Dumnonii?"

"I didn't say that I thought you were, did I?" returned Esca. It was a puzzling statement -- because hadn't he? "At any rate," he continued, smoothly moving on, "since you didn't say what you wanted a horse for, Dulcissimus here is a lovely option for riding across the countryside, he's big enough for you, and he won't look too bad when your superior pays you a visit. Here."

Marcus watched in incredulity as Esca cooed something soft and gentle in British at the nearest horse, a huge, raw-boned chestnut gelding, who trotted obediently to his side. The gelding whuffled in return, clearly liking Esca just as much.

"That is a ridiculous name," said Marcus, flatly, crossing his arms. Dulcissimus. Really, now. He couldn't possibly call anything that in public. Certainly not a horse. Not even a lover. Especially not a lover, he reflected.

"You can name him whatever you want." Esca was still facing the horse, and the words were a low, reassuring murmur; he was stroking the gelding's neck as he spoke. "But he's just the sweetest, he is. Shh. Yes, you are, aren't you?"

"That's all very nice, but--" The rest of Marcus' sentence fled, quite suddenly, from his mind, as hideous realization flooded it. "By Jupiter! You don't think we're attacking the Dumnonii. You think the Dumnonii are attacking us."

Esca turned back, and his face was deadly serious, pale and taut. "I didn't tell you anything, centurion. Do you understand me?"

Picking up on the change in his owner's mood, Dulcissimus threw his head back and neighed, dancing away with a nervous flick of his tail.

They couldn't. They just couldn't be. This man had to be wrong. What did he know, anyway? Esca looked away from him, almost in a kind of shame: he hadn't meant to let Marcus know any of it. That meant he believed it. It wasn't a joke.

Marcus shook his head, violently, trying to make everything make sense. "No! You can't mean that. They can't-- Cradoc would have-- he couldn't--"

"Cradoc?" Esca, seeming to regroup his wits, raised an eyebrow. "I would be very careful about how much you trust the Dumnonii. Any of them. I would not give you their plans even if I knew them, but I know what the Dumnonii are like."

Pfah. He was just saying that. "Oh, have I interrupted some tribal feud?" The words snapped out of him a little more harshly than he intended, but he could be forgiven for that, he was sure. It was a shock to think that Cradoc could be-- no. Esca had to be mistaken.

"No, we have no grievance with them. Do you think they would let me sell horses here if we did?" Esca bit his lip, seeming to consider his next words very carefully. "It has been my experience that Romans underestimate how much hatred the tribes feel for Rome. Even if some man might like an individual Roman. There are... other considerations."

"And you like Rome so much that you're here dealing with me?"

"Centurion," said Esca, dryly, "I like when people give me money in exchange for horses. Please do not presume to lecture me about my own honor."

The world tilted dizzily around him for a few moments, and Marcus staggered, as the information finally sank in. Cradoc was... the Dumnonii were... what if it were true? "I don't think I'll buy today, after all. But--" he waved a hand, or tried to-- "I can pay you for the information."

Esca's mouth twisted. He clearly hadn't intended to tell him, after all. "Consider it a gift. Or, if you like, a warning. There are some things that should not be sold, and I would rather not be in your pay for it. Come back when you're buying horses."

"Will you be here until the next market-day?"

"Certainly." Esca steepled his fingers together. "The question is, will you?"

Two days later, warnings became entirely unnecessary, and everything was pain.

He imagined, in his fever-dreams, that the horse-trader was at his side, whispering as gently as he had done to his beasts, holding his hand. It was an odd comfort for his mind to conjure, but it eased the fire.

### Five: Calleva Atrebatum

"Marcus? Marcus?"

His head was killing him, pounding raw and heavy somewhere above his left ear. He was aware of fingers resting gingerly on the other side of his head, stroking his hair. Another hand was interlaced with his fingers. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times before the patches of light and shadow resolved themselves: Esca was sitting next to him, leaning over him.

"Wh--" He cleared his throat, and tried again: "What's going on?"

"You fell off that damned horse," Esca said, half-angry, half-concerned. "The two-year-old. I told you he wasn't ready for a rider yet."

Marcus reached up to prod at the pain in his head, but winced away when his hand just barely brushed his skull. "I don't-- I don't remember that."

The images were hazy, but came to mind eventually. Esca had his hands on the neck of a chestnut horse... a chestnut? The horse he had tried to break was gray. The chestnut was something different. That had happened... in Isca? Nothing like that had happened in Isca. But it had felt so real. He had dreamt it. Of course Esca had not been a horse-trader. He had dreamt it. Esca had been a slave. He knew that. Another image, as solid and substantial as if it had been laid into tile: chalked feet and fetters. The great slave-markets of Rome. No, that was wrong too.

But something about it was right. Oh, gods. His head.

Esca's face was engraved now with worry. "What's the matter? You look as if you have had a fright."

"Nothing," he said, quickly. "It's just that... would you do me a favor?"

"Anything." Esca's reply was instant, fervent. "Anything, Marcus, you know that."

"Would you tell me how we met?"

Startled, Esca spat out something in British, a low phrase that sounded obscene. "If you tell me you have forgotten how we met, I am sending for the physician again right now, and I will let him bleed you as much as he likes."

"No, no," Marcus said, but Esca did not look convinced. "I know. It is only that I have been having strange dreams, the sort that feel real even as you wake. And you were in them, only it was different."

Whatever chastising words had been in Esca's heart to say went away, and there was a new awe on his face. "The gods' dreams," he said, and it was as simple as that. Marcus had not even thought of that explanation. "They sent them to you. Tell me, then, what they said."

"I dreamed I met you," Marcus began, and he told of the places: Clusium. Rome. Nicopolis, in Egypt. Even Isca. "But what could the gods mean, to send me that?"

Esca stared at him as if the answer was obvious. "Why, it is that we were always meant to have met, in your life. And I have to say that much of it sounds nicer than me being in the arena here for the Saturnalia Games."

The dreams fell away, and he knew the truth of it. He remembered standing, shouting for life, raising his hand to the skies.

"Would you have preferred another way? I know you hated me, then."

"Not only hatred," said Esca, and he lifted Marcus' hand, still entwined with his own, to press it to his lips. "Never only that. Even your poets know that a man may feel hatred and love both."

"And now?"

"Much more of the other." Esca's smile was a bright flash of teeth. "And if you had not remembered _that_ \--"

"I am in no danger of forgetting," Marcus assured him. "But I always welcome reminders."

"Then you will have them." Esca whispered, low and intense, but somehow with a great and patient kindness. "And I am glad I met you. It does not matter how we met. Only that we did."

As Esca bent down to kiss him again, Marcus knew then that here was the proper place, and this the time: all the dreams led to the two of them, no matter the road.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Into the Same River Twice [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514234) by [litrapod (litra)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litrapod)




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